Hateful Things
by Monoshiri
Summary: G1. A short piece about weakness and the forms it can take. MotormasterxBreakdown, dark slash, nastiness, verging on noncon.


Hateful Things  
"Hey, what are you doing? Not he — OW!"

The sharp crunch of metal on metal, the clamour of someone being shoved up against a wall by someone much larger, and the pained yelp of whomever was being shoved shattered the silence of the primary control room of the Decepticon undersea base with the perverse elegance of a rock through a window. No one else was there to hear, for the moment, but that could change oh so quickly...

"W-what are you _thinking_, you maniac! Put me down already! Someone will _see_!"

"And I'm supposed to care, why?" Rumbled the aggressor, his tone of voice unusually even.

"Because-because they'll _stare_..." The smaller robot trailed off as he looked up into the other's face, taking in the merciless smirk, calculating from hours spent unwillingly in each other's minds what intentions he had, and drawing a terrible conclusion. "You wouldn't."

"I don't think even Swindle would care to bet on that." Terrible pronouncement made, irrevocably in control, he crushed his— playmate, or was that bondmate? No, the word implied love where there was none, _could_ be none— _victim's_ lips with his own, energy fields intermingling, hands leaving dents in places where it would hurt and irritate the most until repairs could be made. But something in both their programming demanded that submission not occur, and a sharp, debilitating wave from the unwilling one's engine core caused a short-circuit that made his aggressor's arm jerk painfully out of his own control. Typically, the reaction to pain was not anguish but fury.

"Do that again, and I'll rip your tires off and leave you to the Lamborghinis, you cowardly little...!"

_Motormaster?_

_WHAT?_

_I hate you._

The exchange, over their internal radio, took seconds and caused minutes of silence. Then, _Tell me something I don't know._

_Then don't TOUCH m—ah!_

Breakdown found his feet leaving the ground by almost a meter as he was crushed between Motormaster's grey chest and the wall, circuits crackling with the energy overflowing from his larger gestalt mate's aura. The Stunticons were not the most sensitive Transformers, emotionally or physically. An arm grab was required to disrupt their auras to the extent that an indirect touch with the back of someone's hand could disrupt that of, say, one of the Constructicons. But this, this was too much, even for Breakdown, it felt as if Motormaster was controlling, even consuming, his energy fields.

_Why shouldn't I?_ came the mocking, sneering voice in his head. _I control everything else about you. I have to. You, Drag Strip, Wildrider, Dead End...you'd all be worthless if it weren't for me running the show._

_...we wouldn't..._ Breakdown, with no understanding of the human concept of drowning, couldn't identify what was happening to his mind, but it was making him afraid, and of course angry.

_You would. Don't deny it. You'd fall apart. Menasor certainly would._

_I suppose that was your idea of being funny,_ Breakdown jabbed venomously, rallying himself around his own rage. _Bet you think this is hilarious. Well, I'll tell you what I think..._

_Do you think I care what you think? What any of you think?_

No, of course not, Breakdown started to say, but stopped when his lips were covered again, this kiss only slightly less harsh, glossa invading his mouth. Hands on him again, this time aiming not for hurt but for pleasure. Caresses on sensor-rich areas that would have caused his knees to buckle, but for the fact that he was no longer holding himself up, as out of control of his own destiny, even his own circuitry, as he had ever been. He whimpered, fury turning into frustration and being subsumed by need. He wanted to be touched, wanted to tell his gestalt mate where to touch, knew anyway that such a wanton display of weakness would only cause Motormaster to spitefully withdraw; but more than that, he wanted to touch back, to feel some effect, something other than a connection that only went one way.

Breakdown reached out a trembling hand to brush against Motormaster's cheek, only to have it smacked away sharply; the bigger Stunticon made a low-pitched warning noise akin to someone on the verge of road rage rapping briefly against his horn. Angry again, Breakdown responded with an equally sharp, shriller honk: why not?

_You'll screw up. You always do._

_Are you afraid to let me touch you?_

_Afraid...?_

Breakdown regretted his choice of words almost instantly. Hands that had aimed to tease and give unwilling pleasure became cruel once more, pulling up his chest plate, handling his excruciatingly tender internal wiring and circuits as roughly as if he had been an Autobot laid open for the kill. Supernovas exploded behind Breakdown's offline optic sensors: someone was moaning, and it took him a moment to recognize his own voice in the keening, wordless cries-- he who had always, sometimes without success, sought the perfect word for every situation. Now he could think of only one.

_STOP!_

Motormaster paused and stepped back, releasing Breakdown so that the smaller mechanism slid to the floor, a tangle of limbs and dazed astonishment. The gigantic grey truck looked down on him with a crooked smile almost a mirror to that of Megatron's, and Breakdown realized then that Motormaster hadn't complied with his request, that his torture was only being prolonged. The terrible feeling of having his gestalt mate invade him, mind and body, was second alone to the even worse sensation of his not being there. They both knew it, and the aggressor was gloating.

_I'll leave if you'd like._ The tone was perfect mockery.

_D-don't._ Breakdown wasn't sure when he had despised himself more in his existence. Powerful arms wrapped around his waist, drew him close enough to feel his own spark pulsing in tandem with Motormaster's, a gesture of possession rather than affection. The ensuing laugh came out half engine-rumble.

_You see what I mean? You're nothing when I'm not there to control you._

Breakdown dimly realized that Motormaster was deftly wiring their output circuitry together, a gesture to prepare for mutual overload. He wasn't ready, it wasn't good for his fragile system, and there was no question as to who would walk away and who would lie still for hours trying to recalibrate, but he could not refuse. Even communion given in contempt and hatred, Breakdown reasoned as most of his rational thought processes began to shut down from the overwhelming electrical pulses of his gestalt mate, was better than nothing at all.

Even so, the part of him that he blamed on Dead End, the part that seemed to want to get the whole killed, sent a thought over the mind-link before both were submerged in ecstasy.

_But what would you do without us? If you didn't need to keep us together...would it be you who fell apart?_


End file.
